


Yours in Anxiety

by BlossomofFireandRain



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 11:05:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13680420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomofFireandRain/pseuds/BlossomofFireandRain
Summary: He only comes to you when he’s truly anxious.





	Yours in Anxiety

He only comes to you when he’s truly anxious. 

One moment you’re alone, wiping down the bow that has brought (and continues to bring) power and attention to you, the next minute there’s a hulking shadow behind you, even so much bigger than you. 

You can’t say how you always know he’s there, just that somehow the air seems to go heavier, thicker, more separated from reality. You turn, and there he is. 

“My lord?” you ask.

“I don’t like it.”

You wait for him to respond, you’re used to how this goes.

“I DON’T MOTHERFUCKING LIKE IT!” 

You raise one eyebrow, even as you feel the urge to smooth over his brows till he calms.

“It’s gone too smooth. Too motherfucking easy. We spend 4 sweeps hunting this fucking false messiah, and now that we have them, that’s it? NO FUCKING FUSS, NO DESIDIANTS!?” 

Now you let yourself move in. “Would you prefer a rebellious crowd instead somehow overthrow the executions?” you say, as you smooth your hands over his waxy face, confident now how to touch him without smearing any of his makeup.

He looks away, grumpy and reluctant to meet your eyes, always this weird shame at admitting fear. “I WANT…..motherfucking reality, not whatever this itch in my bones is…. This… _twining cowardness_ to see tomorrow….” He hisses through his teeth with the words, and you absentmindedly stroke his face and attempt to smooth his hair back, the beads of all-colors clicking together as you shift them. 

“The mutant will die. His conspirators also. And then you and I will head back to back to your faithful, and I’ll attend services with you and even take communion this time. And it will be fine.” You don’t….exactly… _want_ to drink faygo, but. It makes him happy. 

“But for now, join me in my cupe? The sun rises soon, and I will sleep better with you near me…..” It’s a base entreaty, but…..you like it. And you know he likes it. So perhaps it’s fine?

He finally lets his heavy head fully rest against your hands, a deep sigh echoing from him as some level of anxiety seems to leave him. “Fine. But don’t think this makes you always right, you dangerous diamond.” You can’t help but laugh, a short heh, and he continues. “You give a lowblood an inch, and he thinks he can motherfucking walk all over you.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You met him when you were nine sweeps. Hair tied back, shorter than it is now, sweating as you practiced in the humidity, shooting arrows after arrow, until your shoulders and back ache, focused. If you can only be good at one thing, you will be the best! If you can only kill when you touch, then you will master that! The skin on one finger has cracked, and you attempt not to grit your teeth as you line up another shot. Better blood than another cracked tooth. Without you meaning to, the conversation replays in your mind. 

“Sorry, I...I just don’t feel that way about you. You’re….very strong, and I….don’t feel...up to that….. Um. Would it be better if I hush- Yes. I should hush. Um. But thank you for your consideration. Bye.” 

In your mind you see her pull away, horns carefully held at neutral, trying to keep her face blank. Why does it keep not working!? Another finger splits, and the bow string slips and snaps you across a forearm. This is how it goes, a highblood falls in pale for a lowblood, and they fix him! You try to remind yourself that displays of rage are not appropriate for your caste, and yet it would be so satisfying…… You pry your fingers open before you crack the bow, pain throbbing through them from overuse and split skin. You want to lean forward and hide behind your hair, you want to hide in your hive for the next six sweeps, you want to cling to her ankles and cry. 

“You just gonna drop your weapon like that, shitblood?”

You look up, an unusual thing for you. He’s…..huge. Built like a tank, heavy spiraling horns, several colors of beads already bound through their hair, even though you are still certain you are in the boundaries of the training barracks, and surely there would be no one here with that many colors already. His eyes seem to sharpen as you meet them, and in one surprising fluid movement he drops into a crouch beside you. 

“Is she really worth all motherfucking this? That pissbitch?”

You color. So someone saw. Or you were more obvious than you thought. Joy. 

“Seems to me, you should seek higher than that, surely it doesn’t have to be her who shooshes you….. Perhaps….a motherfucking cooler touch?” And one cool hand cups your face, while the other comes up and gently strokes your cheek. “Shoosh, motherfucker…..” 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you both rouse from coup in the evening, he’s unusually tender. Perhaps this worry really was eating at him. You wash his hair, and he attempts to convince you to let him do some intensely complicated braid with your hair, some traditional pale hairstyle, and you refuse yet again, but do let him carefully braid in the small purple diamond-cubed beads into your hair, a silent clicking reminder of your moirailegiance. After all, there is no reason for you to be silent tonight. You might as well display for the world that you are his. Your token for him is already in his hair, but who would even notice it among the rest of the beads? His status does have drawbacks…… 

The execution goes as planned, and as a gift, he loudly announces that his moirail will finish the mutant. You attempt to not flush, even as you attempt to prepare for this unexpected change of plans, pulling out your bow, and lining up a shot that will bleed the mutant out for all to see his sin. 

Perhaps you should not have been surprised that Kurloz would tell you to take the next one too, his voice warm against your ears, even as he purrs. 

She’s thrown in front of you, and……..everything freezes. Your fingertips feel cold and distant. The roar of the crowd fades, and you feel your heart drop in horror. 

Oh no. Oh _no._

She stares at you, hissing spitefully, not even done in by the mutant’s death, furious and _infinitely_ alive, strong arms straining at the ropes, green tears flowing even as she snarls at...you? The crowd? The Condesce? Kurloz? 

_Kurloz._

You must have made a weird expression, or has this gone on for the sweep it feels to you? Because he called you, your hatchname, not your title, questioning and confused, and you….let….the arrow go.

At her feet. 

She’s been working on the ropes the whole time, and as your cold fingers drop the bow, she gets loose, gets away, precious brilliant life fleeing from you. 

Behind you Kurloz is barking out orders, even as the Condesce roars, and you…..flee. Like a coward. Who will block your way, when the only one to ever match your strength has been the Grand Highblood?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You never found her. You’re not entirely sure you wanted to, although you did look. Only paintings in caves did you find, painted in animal blood. You wonder where she found the blue blooded lusus to paint your execution of her matesprite so starkly. One morning, lonely and sad, you bite a finger open, and paint a small blue diamond next to her image. For who, only Kurloz’s messiahs might know. When you find the old tunnels, stone lined and ancient, and painted richly even down to the (probably deliberately) flooded portions, you just…..give up. Perhaps here is a good place to stop. To stop it all. You force yourself to hunt, and have to sob when you bite into the flesh. You have lost it _all._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He only comes to you when he’s truly anxious.

How he found you though, you have…very little idea. There is no way he could have learned it from the budding sufferists cult, who have been the only ones to find you. 

It’s been….so many sweeps, and yet, from somewhere behind you, you feel the air grow thicker. With shaking hands you put down the arrow you were fletching, unsure of how this goes now.

You turn. He’s…..huger. You think. Somehow. His mask is heavier, the lines sharper, his hair wild and uncombed, clubs in his hands. You wonder if this is when you die. 

“My lord?” The words fall out, still rote even now.

“...........I have an itch in my bones…. A MOTHERFUCKING SOURNESS IN THE SOUL!”

You jolt. 

“Got feelings in my pan…. MAKE YOUR PEACE, BONE BROTHER! Make my peace…..”

He steps forward, and this, stupidly this you will give him. What you could not do yourself, you will let him do. You brace yourself. 

A cold waxy face comes to rest heavy against your shoulder. 

You stay frozen, before you manage to make yourself move, bloodless finger reaching up to pet his hair, attempt to detangle the beads. 

He seems to relax all at once, and you both fall backwards, leaving him heavy in your lap, hair everywhere, the scent of patchouli and sweat swamping you, even as he goes limp against you. 

“There ain’t-…There _isn’t_ anyone else. No motherfucking troll who can fill it. Somehow it’s gotta be a fucking shitblood traitor who holds my diamond.”

Your hands won’t stop shaking as you try to smooth his hair, and they catch on something, following your fingers as you pull them loose from his hair. A simple rich blue cube bead, carefully stamped with your sign on two sides, and diamonds on the others. 

You want to throw up. How. _How?_ You thought….. You cough, and carefully reach onto a pouch. 

When you finally stopped, finally gave up, you’d taken them out of your hair. You didn’t _deserve_ to wear them. You had tried to make yourself throw them away, leave them somewhere, let them lose their symbolism, but…..

You pull out a loop of string with three purple beads on it. With a shaking hand you offer it to him, and he finally sits back, face serious as he takes them and braids them back into your hair. 

“Do…..you want to rest with me? I fear there is no recupercoon, but….”

“Sure. Show me your pile, lowblood. Motherfucking SEDUCE me.”

You fall like adolescents onto your furs. You trace his cold face, the beginning of fins along the edges of his ears. He smooths his cool hands over your horns, over your rough edges, over your _aches._

When he leaves at dusk, he leaves a bottle of faygo. 

When you look at him questioningly, he says “Have a trial tomorrow. MOTHERFUCKING PIRATE BITCH. If I can, I’ll be back. BUT IF I CAN’T! You drink some and take communion finally, you backsliding heathen.”

You have to laugh. He’ll be back. Diamonds can even survive serendipity.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at NuclearVampire.tumblr.com


End file.
